


The Only Voice Coming Back

by MagicaDraconia16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based on the youtube video 'Echo', Diary/Journal, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No happy ending here, by duchesscloverly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-12 10:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11735103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: While on an undercover mission, Lestrade is killed. Mycroft doesn't cope very well.





	1. Saturday 24th September, 2016 – 2:09am

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen the video this is based on, you know what's coming, although I had to do some minor tweaking. If you haven't . . . heed the tags. Seriously. There is not a happy ending in sight anywhere. You will need tissues. Lots and lots of tissues. And possibly chocolate. And a blanket. 
> 
> This is Mycroft's 'diary' of events, so some/most chapters are quite short. You may thank me for that, you may not. 
> 
> Gayfere Street is an actual street (unless Google maps lied to me), that is indeed quite close to the Cabinet Office, the Houses of Parliament, and New Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, I doubt there's actually a hidden restaurant. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Thea, who did the artwork for Chapter 2 for me. 
> 
> "Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm alright  
> But it's never enough  
> 'Cause my echo, echo  
> Is the only voice coming back"  
>  _Echo, Jason Walker_

I begin to see why Greg insists on a brief contact at least every other day when I’m out of the country. It’s only been three days since he last managed a brief call, but I miss him terribly.

‘All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.’

Uncle Rudy drilled that into me, after Eurus— well, after Eurus. I faithfully repeated it to Sherlock on many an occasion, but he refused to listen. Apparently, in this instance, he knew better than I. Uncle Rudy would be terribly disappointed to see just how much a part of my life Greg is.

Although I challenge anyone to keep Greg out of it. My Detective Inspector is a very stubborn man when he wants to be.

Which is why I am currently home alone. It’s been years since he last went undercover (goodness, I’m spending far too much time with Greg – I shall have to inform him that he’s succeeded in dragging my mind down to his level, despite heroic resistance), but he wanted to perform one last service before he takes on the role of Superintendant. It seems he fears losing ‘touch’ with the ‘streets’.

Still, he was cautiously optimistic when I spoke to him last, and the word around the Met office – not that I’m listening, of course – is that they have nearly all the evidence they require to round up this gang. Another week, two at the most, and Greg will be able to come home.

Perhaps some sort of celebration is required. Nothing too fancy – a three course meal, a nice wine...

It will be good to have him home. Our bed feels far too big and cold without him.

Oh, bollocks! There goes my security. Can’t they manage one crisis without me?!


	2. Sunday 25th September, 2016 – 8:42pm

Gregory is

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Monday 26th September, 2016 – 9:30am

I don’t know what to do.

I’m sitting here, at my desk in my study at home . . . and I don’t know what to do. I have meetings I should be attending, legislation to read through, reports to go over, the thousand and one things I always have to do to keep the government stable and the country running...

And all I can do – all I want to do – is sit here, and do nothing.

Or possibly scream.

How can he be gone?


	4. Tuesday 27th September, 2016 – 1:56pm

I fear I may have just made a terrible mistake, yet there was no other choice.

I had to go and see him.

I fear it’s just made things worse. Now that will be the last image I ever carry in my mind of him. Yet without it – I cannot allow the seed of hope that would have planted itself if I hadn’t gone.

Seeing him that way was... difficult. I can’t even pretend he was merely asleep, although Miss Hooper did an admirable job. ~~It brought it home—~~ no, best not to use that phrase. It made it  REAL. He is gone.

He is . . .

Gone.


	5. Thursday 29th September, 2016 – 10:15am

Yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve had in recent memory. It was his . . . I can’t even think the word, let alone write it. Yesterday was his service. A thoroughly wet and miserable day all round. I wonder if John felt this way when Sherlock—

Still. More people than I’d expected attended, but considering, perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. He drew people to him like moths to a flame (what does that say about me, I wonder?). No doubt he would have appreciated the wake that I’m told went on afterwards, at the . . . establishment that he and John liked to frequent.

I did not attend.

And now, here I sit in our living room, facing the empty settee where he used to relax and trying to make myself truly believe that it’s just my living room now. I don’t want it to be. Every time I close my eyes, I can see him there, looking over his shoulder at me and grinning in that way that made his whole face light up.

And then I open them again, and all I can see is the empty space where he isn’t anymore.


	6. Friday 30th September, 2016 – 11:18pm

I forced myself to return to the office this morning. The workings of the inner government don’t stop working just because my partner is…

Anyway, thank goodness for Anthea, who paid attention to everything I missed – which was, unfortunately, a great deal. I’d give her another pay rise if I could, but then she’d be earning more than the Prime Minister, and we can’t have that. I shall just have to increase her credit at Tiffany’s or Harrods again instead.

And at lunchtime . . . I should have thought it through, but I was trying my best not to think, rather to concentrate on my usual routine. And so I found myself at the Diogenes Club.

Where they gave me the daily papers, including days I’d missed.

I should have expected it.

Instead, the article reporting his… events caught me by surprise. I didn’t read it – couldn’t read it. I couldn’t remove my gaze from the picture they included. Not one of his best, I’ll admit – taken as he left court one day, I believe, after a case that didn’t end as satisfactorily as he wanted – but still him.

Alive.

And now he isn’t.

I had to put the paper aside and physically hold back the sound that wanted to emerge. Not because it would have disturbed the other patrons of the Club, but because I fear it wouldn’t have sounded remotely human.

I wanted to scream, shout, break things until they were in the smallest possible pieces to match how I feel – and yet at the same time I wanted to find the smallest place I could fit in and hide there.

I had to leave the Diogenes and return . . . home. Yet it isn’t home any longer. How could it be, now he isn’t here? Physically, at any rate. Every time I close my eyes, wherever I am, I see him.

And the loss of him is killing me.


	7. Saturday 1st October, 2016 – 3:40pm

I have been sat at this dining room table all day. We didn’t use it often, but the times we did were… special.

I see him, the last time we used it. The casual trousers that fitted him so well, the long-sleeved shirt that he wore open-necked to tempt me (and it certainly succeeded – the bruises I placed on his throat lasted for days).

The smile that he wore just for me.

I thought my heart was already broken and gone, but I can still feel the edges of it tearing at me.

Oh, God, why did you have to leave me!


	8. Monday 3rd October, 2016 – 7:25pm

After yet another relatively unsuccessful morning, I was delivered to Sherlock’s door. According to Anthea, it’s because Sherlock is becoming a pest at the Met, now that he doesn’t have someone willing to allow him on cases without jumping through several complicated hoops. Sherlock does so detest hoops.

However, I believe in this case, it was Sherlock attempting to check up on me – although no doubt the pest business is true enough. We have never been the most demonstrative of brothers (it took us weeks to recover after Eurus’ little ‘game’), which means that Sherlock is sadly lacking in the comfort department. Not for lack of trying, but more lack of . . . practice. Solicitude is, after all, more of an elder brother’s prerogative than a younger one’s.

Still, for a while, at least, it was . . . better. We rarely went to Baker Street together. In fact, I believe the only time we were there at the same time was years ago, before we came together, when Sherlock moved in. He had offered to help Sherlock, but as is typical with my little brother, I believe he ended up doing most of the work himself, whilst Sherlock ranted and raved about the lack of suitable space for his ‘experiments’.

There have been so many places recently that I find myself avoiding, or unwilling to linger in, because his echo is all around me, but aside from one brief flash of the vague greeting we gave each other as we passed on the stairs, Baker Street is remarkably free from ghosts.

Alas, I wasn’t able to stay for long, even without clients arriving to see Sherlock. And at least their arrival distracted both my brother and John from the glances they were giving me. John appeared to think he was being subtle – though you’d think he’d know better after all the years he’s known Sherlock – but Sherlock knew very well that I caught each and every one.

At last, I understand his great dislike of pity. If only it hadn’t taken this...


	9. Wednesday 5th October, 2016 – 3:43am

His voice... God, how it hurts!

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Wednesday 5th October, 2016 – 6:27pm

I discovered an old phone of mine, hidden in the back of my wardrobe. At first, I couldn’t think why I would have kept it. I’ve always had the most technological up-to-date phones six months before they go on general sale, and usually the old phones are taken and destroyed, just to be on the safe side. So it was a puzzle as to why this one was still intact and in my possession.

Then I discovered the voice message on it.

His voice message.

I had forgotten . . . I kept it for that.

We’d just had our first date, after dancing around each other for several months. Barely ten minutes after he’d left, he called me. He managed to get out some pleasantry – it had been a wonderful meal, he’d had a really nice time, he hoped we could do it again if our schedules permitted.

To be honest, I was horribly afraid that I was getting the brush off, that he’d decided that a Detective Inspector was no match for a (minor) government official that couldn’t talk about his work and who didn’t seem to have any similar interests.

Then there was a long silence; so long that I thought he’d tried hanging up but hadn’t quite managed it.

And then he said seven little words, so softly that I almost believed I’d imagined them, or he was speaking to someone else.

I should really stop now, in case I somehow wear the thing out, but I cannot help myself. I cannot stop pressing ‘repeat’, over and over and over again, just to hear his voice, no matter how much it tears me apart.

_“I think I’m in love with you.”_

Oh, Gregory, I think I’m lost without you.


	11. Thursday 6th October, 2016 – 9:20pm

Today has been long and arduous. A minor ruler of a minor country who believes they should be at the very top of everything. Yet again, thank goodness for Anthea. I don’t know what I’d do without her. If we paid her what she deserves, she’d be earning more than some of our minor royalty. Hmm, then again, perhaps we could pay her from some of the minor royalty. It’s not as if they’d notice.

By lunchtime, I’d managed to pull myself together enough to concentrate on matters without Anthea having to record everything – although she did, of course, purely so that we have an unimpeachable record later, in case someone decides that they can convince us that something different was said.

Anthea didn’t say a word when she escorted me home again, but I could tell she was relieved. I have been a heavy burden on her these past few days, but she has risen to the occasion admirably. She may even make a suitable successor for my own position.

I, too, felt more like my old self, continuing to work in the car after the meetings. Unfortunately, that just made it all the more jarring when I entered the study and was confronted, not by a concerned partner, but instead an empty chair.

One of my staff had left the usual whiskey beside my chair for me, and I thought I could at least attempt to keep the routine, for their sake. But without somebody else there to talk through the frustrations with, to tempt and tease and relax with, then there was absolutely no point to it.

I considered downing the whiskey and then just calling for the bottle, but I fear that would do nothing but add to my misery. It would not help. It would not bring him back.

It appears that this room will also become off-limits.


	12. Friday 7th October, 2016 – 6:10am

Last night, my study – rather than the cosy room it’s always been – transformed itself into an enormous cavern, where the silence echoed and rebounded until it deafened me.

Apparently, it also jostled something loose in my mind.

I had decided to leave the room for a time; although I have now had to abandon so many spots in this house that I may as well leave it for good before I am reduced to living in the pantry.

Unfortunately, I had to venture inside again this morning to collect some files that had been left there some time ago (damn those Kurdish!). I admit, I was rushing, trying my best to leave the room before I became overwhelmed again. I could just imagine him, though, sitting in his chair and smirking at me, suggesting that perhaps, just this once, I could be late to the talks.

And I, so consumed with collecting my papers and retreating, actually turned around to tell him off.

I was so busy trying not to remember that I forgot.

The shock of it froze me, so I ended up being late to the talks after all. Anthea was very cross with me. I wish it had been for a nicer reason...


	13. Sunday 9th October, 2016 – 10:37pm

You know it’s going to be a long day when you’re woken before dawn to be informed that your little brother is causing a ruckus at Scotland Yard. Sherlock apparently thinks that tolerance is a baton to be passed on at will. Either that, or he just thinks everyone should be so pleased to have him tell them, in multiple ways, that they’re wrong.

Of course, they usually are, but it’s best not to tell them that. All that does is make them embarrassed and less likely to allow you whatever it is you’re trying to convince them to let you do.

Or – as happened this morning – it makes them punch you in the face.

Sherlock has apparently been spoilt; he’s forgotten what it’s like having someone work with him for the first time.

It seems that things were made worse because it was . . . his case that Sherlock was trying to bully his way onto. Police officers take the loss of one of their own very hard, and no doubt having someone like Sherlock berate them for missing every little thing just adds salt to the wound.

The Superintendent was polite but very firm in his request that Sherlock be kept away from his officers for a time. In all honesty, I cannot blame him. Sherlock seems to be taking it as a personal offence that someone dared to remove one of his ‘toys’.

Unsurprisingly, by the time I had smoothed things over and made my way to Baker Street, he was in the middle of one of his sulks. How John puts up with his torture of that poor violin – it’s a multi-million pound Stradivarius, for heaven’s sake! It deserves better treatment than that – I shall never know.

I had barely entered the flat before Sherlock was bouncing over, demanding that I grant him access to whatever he required. He tried . . . he tried to invoke his name, but I had already determined that I wouldn’t allow it, not this time. I was firm with Sherlock, informing him that he should stay out of it as it’s no concern of his anymore, and he should concentrate his efforts on whatever other cases catch his interest, or perhaps on making friends with some of the other Met officers.

At least, I thought I was firm.

Sherlock has always been headstrong, from the time he was very little. No, perhaps ‘headstrong’ is the wrong word. Determined, single-minded; either of those fits better. He’s always been so convinced of his own superiority, of his own rightness.

For the second time today, I was called to be informed that my little brother was causing a ruckus. This time, he’d been caught trying to sneak onto a crime scene. Anthea suggested she go to collect him, but I decided that I should go; perhaps manage to convince him to let things at Scotland Yard settle.

Anthea was right; she should have gone.

I just hadn’t thought . . . I rarely went to his crime scenes. But Sherlock tried to taunt me with Mummy, I glanced away in exasperation . . . and saw him. As he’d been the night John killed the cabbie. Staring after Sherlock in both exasperation and amusement, before turning away to deal with the situation. Rumpled and worn, but strong, solid. Steady.

Gone.

I tried to hide my expression from Sherlock, but no doubt he noticed, as he rather promptly decided this particular case was not worth his time and he had better things to do elsewhere. He also insisted that it meant I had no need to visit Baker Street again anytime in the near future, which for Sherlock was practically a gold-plated invitation.

Who knows, I may even accept.


	14. Monday 10th October, 2016 – 5:31pm

At least once a month, we visited a little restaurant, tucked away in Gayfere Street. In my line of work, it’s never a good idea to have a routine, and the same could be said of his, too, so we made sure that we never visited on the same day of the month as our previous visit.

As it’s getting close to the time we would have visited anyway, and feeling the urge to be somewhere that was just for us, I called in.

It’s a lovely little place, quiet and peaceful. Custom is gained via word of mouth, never something as crass as advertising. You’d never be able to find the place if you aren’t taken by someone who already knows it. Greg was astonished the first time I took him there, as it isn’t far from both of our work places, and he regularly wanders the area on his lunch break when he’s able.

The owner is a friendly man, who knows all of his regulars and what they prefer to order, and yet he remains in the background, almost invisible. He says his name is Mario, and he speaks with such a thick Italian accent that you could almost chew on it – and he certainly does – but I happen to know that he’s actually from the East End of London, via Manchester. I do wonder, sometimes, if that wasn’t why Sherlock was so interested in Angelo’s case – the fact that he’d get to befriend an ‘Italian’ restaurant owner, too.

I think, if he hadn’t known me so well, he would have hugged me when he saw me. I’m quite glad he didn’t – I don’t know that I could have stood it.

As it is, I doubt I shall return there again now. The experience is not nearly as pleasant without him sitting opposite me, leaning in to whisper some dirty thing to make me choke, or to feed me from whatever he’d ordered. Without his smile showing that he, too, is enjoying the company. I do wish I could see his face again, just once.

Just one smile.

The hardest part was when Mario brought dessert over. “His favourite,” indeed. I tried to smile at Mario, but I suspect it wasn’t a very good attempt, as Mario looked a bit worried and tried to reassure me.

_“He was a good man. We’ll miss him.”_

He is… was. He was, and we will. I will.

I do.


	15. Wednesday 12th October, 2016 – 11:30pm

I made Greg’s favourite breakfast this morning. I have no idea why on earth he likes it; it was vile. Or perhaps I’d just made it wrongly. Either way, he sat there laughing at me as I forced it down.

He tried to ‘help’ me picking out my outfit for the day, but I informed him that I was perfectly capable of choosing my own clothing. It’s not that Greg doesn’t dress well – when the occasion calls for it, that is – but when it comes to high-end tailored suits such as I prefer to wear, then his . . . experience is sadly lacking. I have tried my best to educate him, but progress has advanced with all the speed of a sleeping snail. That is to say, not at all. Greg continually points out that he’s never had the desire nor the means to patronise those particular shops, but I am determined not to lose this battle.

He also decided to accompany me to the office, even though I pointed out that it wasn’t necessary; just a few loose ends to tie up, which wouldn’t take me long. As I believe I’ve mentioned before, though, my Detective Inspector is a VERY stubborn man, and he was in the car almost before I was.

I suppose it turned out to be a good thing – there were more loose ends than I’d anticipated. Anthea will be most displeased with me when she finds out, but she’s been all but doing my job anyway over the past couple of weeks. She’ll be fine.

Greg spent most of the time just wandering around my office, studying everything. Dressed in the worn jeans and flannel shirt that he knows I adore him in, it was exceedingly difficult for me to concentrate on my work. My eyes wanted to follow his every movement, and I kept finding myself looking up for him. He didn’t complain about how long it took. I suppose he knew I wanted to ensure everything was in order.

Once I was finally finished, he suggested I visit Sherlock while I could still be fairly certain that his invitation was still open. I hadn’t thought of visiting Baker Street again quite this soon, but I saw his point.

A good one, as it turned out. Sherlock didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms, but merely reduced himself to plucking away at his violin whilst ignoring me. If he’d really wanted me to leave the flat, he would have been much worse.

Greg wandered around the flat for a little while, deftly avoiding John doing the same thing, then came to sit on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, smiling down fondly at him. When I turned my head to watch John, he seemed to shimmer and fade, but when my gaze snapped back to him, he merely raised eyebrows at the piercing look I gave him.

 _“You okay?”_ he asked, for about the twentieth time that day.

 _“I’m fine,” _I assured him, firmly, and it was only when John looked round and Sherlock’s head snapped up that I realised I’d spoken out loud to him.

Neither of them said anything, but I decided it would be best to leave shortly afterwards.

Now I sit here by the window in my bedroom, listening to the rain outside. Greg has been reclining on the bed for the last half an hour, and keeps shooting me questioning looks. I believe he is impatient for me to join him, and to tell the truth, so am I.

I must just make one more phone call first…


	16. Sherlock Holmes’ phone

**You have ONE new message, received Wednesday, 12 th October, at eleven-thirty-five pm**

“Sherlock… I’m sorry.”


End file.
